


This Is How It Ends

by BRNZ



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Everything Hurts, Fuck this is the saddest thing Ive written, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, I Made Myself Cry, I'm Sorry, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Pain, Pain all the way down, Sad Ending, Tears, Tissue Warning, Tragedy, What Have I Done, You Have Been Warned, no happy ending, you will cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BRNZ/pseuds/BRNZ
Summary: What if there wasn't a Happy Ever After?  What if Sherlock pushed the limits too far and both he and John pay the price?WARNING:  MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHAbsolutely NO HAPPY ENDING HERE.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 62





	This Is How It Ends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raechem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raechem/gifts).



> *************************************************  
> I blame this entirely on @Raechem who made me read Second Waltz and my brain suddenly gave me THIS
> 
> I had to write it because I've cried for two days straight and this is the only way to get it out of my brain
> 
> ************************************************

6th JANUARY  


“This isn’t quite how I planned your birthday to go,” John huffed as they took cover behind a flimsy stack of crates, “They’re armed, stay  _ down _ , you idiot.”

“Those crates are full of russian assault rifles, if the markings on the outside are correct,” Sherlock muttered as he strained forward in the dim light of the warehouse. Sherlock jerked as John pulled on his coat.

“We need to get out of here, and wait for Greg to call in the Special Ops team. Sherlock, for once in your life, just  _ wait _ !” John hissed but Sherlock shuffled forward, trying to get a clear view of the ringleader. Intent on the six men talking in low voices as they packed up crates of weapons, he didn’t notice when his shoulder knocked against a box which shifted, causing tone on top to fall off.

The noise of the wooden crate landing on the floor was loud on the freezing concrete floor, and both men froze as the arms dealers turned in their direction. After some discussion, someone cursed and said in a harsh accent “Is probably just a cat, yeah. Lets scare it off?”

He opened fire with one of the rifles, and sprayed a sweep of bullets across the crates, laughing as the wood shattered and tumbled.

Pressed flat to the floor Sherlock prayed to whatever gods were listening that satisfied their curiosity and everyone waited for a long moment, before going back to work.

Behind Sherlock, he heard a faint cough and then a wet rattling sound that made his spine freeze, and John said thickly “I’m hit.”

Rolling over, pulse pounding as adrenaline surged in his system, Sherlock saw the sight that would never leave him, for as long as he lived.   
  
John was hit high up on his chest, left side and low down on his right, clear through both lungs, and red bloody foam was already spilling out of the corner of his mouth as he struggled to breathe.

“John… oh god John… hangon…” Unwrapping his scarf he put pressure on the wounds, but it was the look on John's face that broke him.

Softly, brokenly, John gazed up at him, as blood leaked out of his body “Shhh...er..lock...sorry…” he coughed again, wetly, reaching up one hand to the face so frantically staring down into his in absolute horror. 

“I’m dying… Sherlock… love… you…”

As the NSY team finally stormed the doors, John died in Sherlock’s arms. Once they had rounded up the arms dealers, it was the sounds of Sherlock’s animal cries of pain that alerted them to the situation.

Lestrade stood for a long moment, as the world witnessed the breadth and depth of the grief of Sherlock Holmes as he finally let go and howled his agony, John’s body clasped to his chest.

********************************   
  
Mycroft delegated organising the funeral to the ever efficient Anthea, as Sherlock locked himself in the flat and refused to leave, answer any calls or talk to anyone except Mrs Hudson. Who was beside herself.

A week later, a noticeable funeral cortege pulled up, John was being buried in the Holmes family plot, and the turnout for the event was heartwarming.

Mycroft spoke a very short welcome and thanks, making way for a short sermon from the local pastor, then giving those who wanted the opportunity to speak. Many did, there were tears, laughter, stories and tales of derring do. Everyone had something to share about John.

Eventually there was only one person left to speak. The tall hollow eyed man dressed head to toe in black, who had stood isolated, hands clasped behind his back, watching from a distance. When no one else stepped forward, Mycroft looked at his brother and tilted his head, asking silently.   
  
Sherlock stepped forward, to the very edge of the grave, pulled out his violin and began to play. It was a heartrendingly sad piece, slow, deep and unutterably painful, leaving everyone in tears again. When he finished, he packed the violin in its case, then laid it gently on top of John’s coffin, laying one hand on the glossy wooden finish, head bowed, as tears visibly flowed down his face.

After a long moment, Mycroft gave a nod, and various minions quietly began ushering everyone away, leaving Sherlock alone with his grief, until only Mycroft and Greg were left.

“The Stradivarius, Sherlock? Really?”

Not looking at his brother, Sherlock shook for a long moment, and ground out “I have no more reason to play, brother mine. The music is gone.”

Mycroft went to speak, but Greg put a hand on his shoulder, saying “Don’t. It's what he wants.”

Turning to Sherlock, Greg held out a hand “Time to go, Sherlock.”

“I’m staying.” A flash of too pale face, eyes dark red ringed hollows, cheekbones harsh lines, and that voice a rasp of pain.

Neither man argued, and Sherlock stayed until all that was left was a mound of freshly poured dirt in front of the gravestone that said 

**_John Watson_ ** **_  
  
_ **

**Died 6th Jan**

**A hero to all who knew him**

******************************************************   
7 MONTHS LATER

Greg sighed as he fumbled the key in the lock to his flat, it had been a long fucking day. Dawn was not far away and he knew he wasn’t going to get nearly enough sleep, again.

So tired, it took him a moment to notice the silent figure sitting in a pool of warm light, in his favourite reading chair.

“Jesus Mycroft, nearly gave me a heart attack, it's 4am, what the hell are you doing here?   


He’d given up asking how Sherlock’s brother got in, muttering ‘at least bring some decent whisky with you next time’. The irregular night time visits had become almost mundane now, Mycroft reaching out to everyone who had been in Sherlock’s life, trying to keep track of him.

“Have you seen him lately?” Mycroft poured a couple of fingers of whisky into a cut glass tumbler, pushing it towards Greg, who sank into the sofa with a sigh of resignation.

“Not for weeks, not since I had to kick him off the last case. He was high, Mycroft, raving. Worse than I’ve seen him in…. well… since before…”

“Yes,” sighed Mycroft “Since before John, I know.” Sipping at his own whisky he stared into space, and Greg realised that he looked… tired, old and deeply unhappy.

Raising his head, with an expression of profound sadness, Mycroft said “He’s gone, and I can’t find him.”

“You mean left Baker St?”

“I mean, cashed out one of his accounts, taken his stash of fake passports, John’s gun and disappeared. Off the grid so completely, even I can’t find him.”

“How much money?”

Mycroft said with heavy finality “Enough.”

“Fuck.”

“Yes, my thoughts exactly.”

******************************************   
3 MONTHS LATER

Anthea bustled into his office unexpectedly “We’ve found him, Kiev. Mycroft… its not good news.”

With a heavy sigh of both relief and distress, Mycroft said only “How bad?”

“Cocaine, probably heroin. Hepatitis, anaemia, a couple of badly healed broken bones, some nasty infected cuts and he’s lost a shocking amount of weight.”

“Is he dying?” Mycroft looked up at her, face lined with strain, hair now nearly grey from stress and worry, his own face hawklike from too many late nights and not enough food.

She laid the medical file out in front of him, saying only “He wants to.”

_ Looking at the disturbing photos and summary of his brother's medical and psychological condition, Mycroft let tears finally flow down his face, uncaring that they dropped and splattered on the documents on his desk. _

_ Sherlock was alive… for now. _

*****************************************   
  
They had to fly him home in stages, ravaged by illness, physically unable to tolerate going cold turkey, they had to adapt a cocktail of drugs that kept Sherlock manageable, yet didn’t put more strain on his body.

A week in Germany, two in Geneva, the best health care Mycroft could summon to attend to his brother's needs, but in the end he had to accept the truth.

Sherlock was not willing to fight any longer. His body was healing, but his mind was not. Too far gone with guilt and grief, he alternated between raging at Mycroft and crying with heartbreakingly sad confessions. Many times he talked to John, sometimes laughing, rehashing old conversations, until it was time for his next fix.

Finally Mycroft made the call, “Set it up Anthea, we are coming home.”

******************************************   
  
Installed in a downstairs sitting room with views of the garden, Sherlock lapsed into a slow descent. Even with 24 hour nursing and the finest quality care, he refused to eat, necessitating nasal tube feeding.

Watching his brother decline daily, Mycroft quietly set about making preparations, inviting a select few people round for Xmas day. No one had been told Sherlock was back in London, and when Greg and Mrs Hudson and Molly turned up, they understood why.

Listless and fractious, demanding his next fix, Sherlock was in no frame of mind for visitors, but everyone got their chance to say goodbye, in their own way.

Molly and Mrs Hudson left shortly after dinner, but Greg stayed. As the evening wore on and the level in the whisky bottle slowly dropped, they sat in the dark in front of the fire, listening to the broken murmurings in the room next door.

Wordlessly, Greg got up, walked over to Mycroft’s chair, knelt in front of him, looked at him for a long moment before holding his arms out.

He held Mycroft and the two of them cried in each others arms for a very long time.

**********************************   
  
On New Years Day Mycroft looked down at his brother, who reached out with a trembling hand, delicately grasping Mycroft’s wrist.

“Take me home, Mycroft. I want to die at home.”

It took a couple of days to organise, and Mrs Hudson needed another to come to terms with what was being asked.

On the 5th of January, Sherlock took up residence in 221B (which had remained the same as the day he had left it).

Rejecting all but the most necessary medical equipment, Mycroft carried his brother up the stairs himself, settled him on the sofa, and together they waited out the night.

Fetching one of John’s jumpers from upstairs helped settle Sherlock, and he breathed in the oatmeal wool with deep breaths, followed by pained bouts of coughing.

“I can’t smell him any more…” tears flowed freely down those hollow pale cheeks. Even the warm golden glow of the lamps was unable to ease the chalk white tone of Sherlock’s skin.

As Mycroft sat there, listening to the quiet beep of the machines, Sherlock rasped “What time is it?”

“Six minutes past twelve. Happy Birthday, Sherlock.”

With a faint rattling laugh, Sherlock coughed again “Turn them off, the machines.”

Silently, Mycroft reached over and did as he was bid, and the quiet hum of the city filled the room undercut by the short rasping breaths of the man dying on the sofa.

“I loved him, Mycroft.”

“I know, Sherlock.”

“I never got the … chance...to… tell...him…”

As Sherlock struggled to breathe he coughed once more and choked out “John…”

Finally Mycroft let his tears and grief overwhelm him, as he gathered Sherlock’s body in his arms, sobbing as if his heart was breaking.

Eventually, he cried himself out, lay Sherlock down on the sofa, stroked his wayward hair one last time, before laying a kiss on his forehead, and again on his lips.

Standing, he bowed his head for a long quiet moment.

“This is how it ends, brother mine.”

********************************************   
  
A few days later, with little fanfare, a new headstone was installed on John’s grave.

**_John Watson & Sherlock Holmes_ **

**_Died 6th Jan_ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** **Heroes to all who knew them** **  
** **  
** **_Know that you_ ** **_were_ ** **_loved._ **

  
  
  
  



End file.
